Family Secrets
by L. E. Wigman
Summary: Meet Charlie Newkirk - eighteen years old - RAF waist gunner. Written for the SSSW 2018.


**Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to ' _Hogan's Heroes_ '... I'm just a fan who takes the characters and puts them out on little jaunts. I mostly keep them safe and return them when I'm done. Also, none of the OC characters are based on any persons living or dead. Thank you for reading this annoyingly long disclaimer, that most likely won't protect me from any legal complaints.**

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Jerking awake, he felt sharp pain. He blinked a few times trying to do a mental inventory. He had a headache… maybe he'd hit his head? He attempted to rub his temple, when his right shoulder protested. He gasped, his vision blackening at the sides. He couldn't blackout, not dangling from a tree twenty feet above German soil. He had to stay awake. His eyes drifted closed as he remembered the last few months…

August 1943

"You can't join!" Mavis Newkirk wailed. She'd been crushed when the letter for Peter's draft had come in, but now her little brother, Charlie, wanted to enlist. It was the straw that she just couldn't take, not with what had happened to Peter.

"Mam, you can't let him," she turned to appeal to their mother. Charlie was only seventeen and needed her permission to serve. Mam's tired blue eyes gazed at her sadly. Charlie put a hand on Mavis' shoulder and spoke his own defense.

"The RAF pays good wages; better than any I could find somewheres else. Mam needs it. We all do. I'll be alright, Mav… honest."

"But…"

"No 'buts', Mav. Peter isn't able to take care of us anymore, so I'll have to."

November 1943

"Keep a lookout, laddy."

Charlie craned his neck to peek through the opening where his gun sat poised to send the Nazis back to the Hell from which they sprang. Seeing nothing but the cloudy darkness, he scoffed.

"Nothing out there to worry about, 'sides we got another two hours 'til we reach the target."

"An awful lot can happen in two hours. Jerry can pop up out of nowhere, so keep your eyes sharp. No noddin' off."

Charlie glared at his friend and mentor, Kenny Mills. He'd taken Charlie under his wing, showing the lad the ropes from cleaning and tending the aeroplane's guns to managing the bartender at the non-com's club. Sometimes though, he sounded more like dad than friend. Peter could do that too. Charlie felt the breast pocket of his coveralls where the letter from his brother sat unopened. It was the first letter Charlie had gotten since Mavis broke the news to Peter about his enlistment. He couldn't bear to open it. Peter had always been bitter about his conscription, so for Charlie to choose to serve must've been a real disappointment to him.

" _We're heading into some flak_ ," the pilot's voice called over the interphone. " _Brace yourselves and look alive. Jerry's waiting for us._ "

"See, lad," Kenny chirped. "Always be on your toes."

February 1944

Charlie opened his eyes again. He had to stay awake. He had to get down. The snow fell softly around him, but was quickly covering the ground below. He attempted a look up at the lines of his chute. His head pounded, though he could just make out the limb about a foot above him.

 _That musta been how I smacked me head._

He tried to shift his right arm, but the searing pain reminded him not to do that again. He dug into his coveralls with his left hand and located his pocket knife. He put the knife between his teeth and took a deep breath. Gripping the limb above him with his left hand, he tried to pull upward.

Nothing. His shoulder protested until he gave up for a moment. He started to pant around the knife as he looked down at the ground. He didn't fancy a twenty foot drop, but that might be his best bet. He spotted a sturdy looking branch below him and put his boot in the notch between it and the trunk of the tree. He pushed up with his foot at the same time he wrapped his left hand around the limb above.

With considerable effort - and four attempts - he pulled himself up enough to sit on the limb. His shoulder screamed in agony. He used his teeth to open the blade and quickly cut the parachute lines. Now he just had to climb twenty feet down with a bum shoulder… piece of cake.

Earlier that same day

"Oi, Charlie!"

Charlie turned as Tim, the newest member of the crew ran up to him. "Did you hear what the Group Captain said? The mission's over Frankfurt tonight."

Charlie nodded, "Yeah, I heard."

"You aren't excited?"

Charlie's lips pressed into a thin line and he shook his head.

"But why ever not?"

Young and inexperienced, Tim was thrilled at the prospect of his first mission. Charlie, who'd long since been baptized by fire, was not. He hadn't been excited for a mission since the day Kenny had received a bullet to the back. Charlie had walked away with a graze in his right leg, while Kenny was paralyzed from the waist down.

Instead of answering what he considered a dumb question, Charlie said, "just pay attention to your gun and the angles. And don't fire to early. I don't want you wasting all your rounds before the fighters are even in range."

"Don't be an old worrier," Tim laughed, "We'll be back in plenty of time for breakfast."

H~H

 _Back in time for breakfast, hmpf. Not bloody likely._

Charlie had managed to get out of the tree and was now trudging through the woods. He had no idea where he was going. He could be heading toward the coast or he could be moving deeper into enemy territory. His luck, probably the latter.

 _Bloody snow!_

Yes, he was griping. No, it wasn't helping him to get out of this mess, but it was keeping him awake. It was keeping his feet moving. Moving through the snow… through the pines that scratched at him. Moving toward that cabin.

 _Cabin?_

He frowned and stepped closer to a tree for cover. It was downright picturesque. The small cabin, tucked into the trees with a smallish clearing for a yard. Off to the right was a wooden construction wound with chicken wire. Obviously dog kennels, if the dog houses inside were anything to go by. He didn't see any dogs. Not that he wanted to, mind you, but it definitely lent credence to the 'nobody lives here' notion.  
Taking a chance, he darted across the clearing to the kennels. Water bowls beside the dog houses were half-full. The dog houses themselves were full of fresh, clean hay. No doubts about it, there were dogs living here. And as everyone knows, with dogs comes owners.

"Hallo?"

Charlie spun and was met with a middle-aged man who had two Shepherd dogs on leads beside him. His was heavier-set and his hair was graying. His face was kind-looking, but he was a German. Charlie took a half-step back when the dogs growled low in their throats. The older man snapped an order at the dogs and they promptly sat down, though kept their eyes on him.

"I am Oskar Schnitzer," the man said in surprisingly good English. He smiled and gestured to the kennel. "I will put the dogs in their kennel and then we can talk."

Charlie backed away from the kennel in a half-circle. He was cold, confused, tired and in a tremendous amount of pain. Perhaps that was why he complied. Lord knows why, but he felt at ease with this man… this German.

"You are part of the bombers, ja?" Oskar asked. He guided the creatures in and commanded them to sit. He unhooked the leads and gave each dog's ear a ruffle.

"Your lot shot me down."

Charlie couldn't believe he was having a semi-normal conversation in the middle of enemy territory. Oskar left the pen with a little chuckle. He latched it closed and pointed to the cabin. "Come, come," he said. "I have something in the oven that I can warm for you. I can also look at your shoulder; if you don't mind me being an animal doctor, that is."

Charlie followed him cautiously up the steps, pausing as the vet pulled a key from under the door mat then following him into the dark cabin. The smell that greeted him from the stove was intoxicatingly good. Oskar found the lamp beside the door and lit it. He then went across the room to the other lamps and soon the room was bathed in light. Charlie inspected the room, to the right of the front door was a small living area with a sofa that sat in front of a stone fireplace. A secretary stood on the other side of the door, which obviously was the vet's office. There was a wooden desk with several books and plenty of papers stacked on it.

Oskar went to the fireplace and put an extra log on the fire from the holder. He stirred and prodded the coals and flames until the fire really got going. "Sit down," he said, indicating the sofa. "Let me look at your arm.

Charlie perched on the edge of the seat, eyeing Oskar carefully. "Why are you helping me? What's in it for you?" he asked, prodding around for the catch, the angle. If Peter had taught him one thing, it was that everyone had an angle.

Oskar gently felt along humerus upto the shoulder, apologizing when Charlie sucked in a sharp breath. "Your shoulder is dislocated. I will have to put it back into place," he said, then moved up to the abrasion on his temple. "This is not so bad."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I will put your shoulder in place. You will get something to eat and then rest," Oskar said. Before Charlie could insist on an answer, Oskar knelt down and began manipulating his arm while telling him to relax. There was some pain, but a moment later the joint was back in its socket. "Don't use it right away. Rest."

Charlie thanked him sincerely, while the vet went to the oven. From it, he pulled a pan filled with bits of meat and bone. He then reached above the counter and removed a plate from the cabinet. A moment later he was standing before his patient offering the plate. "I was planning on giving this pork to the dogs, but you are a worthier cause," he explained, his kind blue eyes twinkling with his smile.

Charlie accepted the meat and buttered bread. Oskar went through a door into the bedroom and removed the cover from his bed. Returning to the living area, he draped it over the back of the couch.

"Where are you going?" Charlie asked, getting a bit anxious when the vet went to the front door. Sure, he'd been helpful thus far, but German is German.

"I must let the Underground know that you are here," Oskar said, that twinkle getting brighter, "I can't get you back to London all by myself."

H~H

Newkirk's eyes flew open at the first bark of 'raus' then fluttered shut again. He'd been run particularly ragged these last few days. Running into Hammelburg to meet contacts then cracking safes in Gestapo Headquarters for the Guv. Not to even mention the forgery work he did in between. What he really needed was about twelve days worth of good, solid sleep.

"Peter," Carter poked at his shoulder. "Better get up. Kindler will be mad if you don't."

"Tell Kindler that he can go to…"

"RAUS!" Sergeant Kindler smacked the wooden bunk with his fist. The bunks shook and Newkirk sat up with a curse. "Get up, Englander," he yelled, before moving on to Hogan's door.

Just as he was about to knock, Hogan opened the door. He was dressed and ready for roll call. "We're up," he said cooly.

Kindler took a moment to recover from Hogan piercing gaze then bobbed his head in acknowledgement. He turned and walked out. Newkirk jumped down from his bunk still muttering his displeasure as he grabbed for his boots. "Never thought I'd say this," Newkirk said, "but I can't wait 'til Schultzie gets off sick leave."

"Newkirk," Hogan called, crossing the room and putting a hand on the Brit's shoulder. "I need one of your finest distractions at roll call this morning."

"Bloody charming."

"One of your countrymen have gotten themselves shot down. Schnitzer picked him up and is bring him in with the dogs," Hogan explained, before cautioning him. "Don't push too hard, but keep Kindler's attention."

"Right, Right, I got it," Newkirk said, "don't pad your part."

Hogan winked and hurried to the door. "Shake a leg fellas. Don't want to keep the Commandant waiting."

"No, we wouldn't want that," Newkirk muttered. He pulled on his great coat and followed his mates out the door.

Kindler stood were Schultz normally stood with his gun on his shoulder. His gun, unlike Schultz's, was actually loaded. He barked out more orders, chided the prisoners for their disarray and lazy attitudes as he waited for Klink to come out of his office.

Schnitzer's truck pulled up to the gate and the vet handed papers to the guard, who reached for the phone. Newkirk rocked on the balls of his feet. He had to wait long enough for Schnitzer to be at the dog pen, but not too long or Klink, who was stepping onto the porch, might dismiss them.

"REPORT!"

"Dreizehn, vierzehn, fünfzehn." Kindler spun proudly and announced, "all prisoners present and accounted for, Herr Kommandant!"

Newkirk watched the vet's truck pull through the gates and over toward the pens. Reaching over to his little mate, Louis, he gave him a hard shove to the left. "Whaddya mean me girl ain't pretty!" he shouted before puffing out his chest indignantly. "She's prettier than any of your French birds."

LeBeau recovered quickly from this surprise attack and played along, jumping down his throat. "The women of Paris are très magnifique! You would not know how to make love to them, you backward…"

Kindler's look of pride melted into furry as Klink frowned at the outburst. Newkirk lunged at LeBeau, who darted away - still spewing insults. Carter and Kinch each jumped into the game and tried 'to reason' with their friends before devolving into fights themselves. Kindler was barking orders for them to stop. The whole of barracks two were arguing, pushing and shoving, and throwing an occasional swing, just to make things look good.

"GUARDS!" Klink bellowed, stepping away from the fray.

The guards ran over to the brawl and Schnitzer ushered Charlie out of the back of his truck. Charlie's jaw dropped when the dog house raised up and a black man motioned for him to climb down. He looked back at Schnitzer, who was too busy keeping his eyes on the guards.

"Come on," the man hissed.

Charlie crawled onto the ladder and down into the dim hole. Schnitzer closed the opening and Charlie couldn't see anything, but the man grabbed his good elbow and pulled him through the tunnel. When they reached a brighter room, the man stopped. Charlie could see that he was American and a sergeant.

"Name's Baker. Welcome to Stalag Thirteen," he said, as he headed for another ladder. "You stay here and don't touch anything. The Colonel will be down directly."

H~H

"Commandant," Hogan said softly. "You know how hard it is to be a soldier, then couple it with winter blues and anyone's liable to be a bit edgy. They were just blowing off steam."

Klink rolled his eyes and waved his riding crop at the now settled group. "If you want to blow off steam, there are plenty of roads to be cleared. Volunteer for work details."

"The punishment should be severe, Herr Kommandant," Kindler said. He was holding a handkerchief to his nose, which was likely broken, and glaring at the prisoners. Newkirk in one of the rowdier moments of the brawl had taken the opportunity to deliver a well-timed elbow to his least favorite enemy's face. "I recommend a cut in rations and wood for their stoves."

Hogan didn't even have to protest. Klink, who was growing weary of Kindler's constant suggestions and interference, shut that idea down with great haste. "All the prisoners of barracks two are confined to barracks until a suitable punishment is decided. Dismissed!"

Kindle ushered the men into the barracks and posted Langenscheidt in front. Newkirk rubbed his jaw as the door slammed shut, saying, "why'd you hit me so hard, Louis?"

LeBeau smirked, "if you cannot handle the fire, stay out of the kitchen."

"Well done, fellas," Hogan said, crossing the room to Kinch's bunk. "Olsen, keep an eye on the door."

The Heroes climbed down the ladder one-by-one. Hogan took in the young private, who sat with big eyes at the radio table. "Welcome to Stalag Thirteen," he said, holding out his hand. "Colonel Hogan. Sergeants Kinchloe and Carter. Corporals LeBeau and …"

"Charlie!" Newkirk gaped when he finally reached the bottom rung of the ladder. He pushed his way through the others and pulled his surprised brother into a hug. "I should've known it'd be you, ya git."

"Peter, when I heard Stalag Thirteen..." Charlie looked at the group of men behind his brother. "I never imagined…"

Newkirk pulled back and immediately noticed the shoulder sling and the bandage on his temple. "What happened?" he demanded, concern giving his voice a sharp edge. Charlie brushed this off with a wave of his good hand and a glib comment about how he should've stuck to his factory job.

LeBeau cleared his throat. "Introductions?" he asked.

Newkirk stepped away from his brother and said with a wide grin, "This is me little brother, Charlie. After me, Mavis and Judy, but before Beryl, Jack, the twins and Winnie."

As all of the Heroes had been regaled by Mavis' letters regarding the Newkirk clan, the recognition was instant. Carter got especially excited, " _the_ Charlie?! The one who swiped the whistle off a copper when he was four years old?"

Charlie turned bright red as Newkirk's chest puffed up in pride. "Wasn't all him," he clarified, "I kept the bobby's attention, but he's a right natural. Has a lighter touch than me, he does."

Hogan held his hand out for a shake. "Always a pleasure," he said. "LeBeau will get you something to eat. Kinch, get in touch with London and arrange for a sub pick up. Newkirk, how about you and Charlie go find something a little less conspicuous for him to wear."

H~H

The rest of the day passed quickly. Charlie's apprehension at seeing his brother quickly melted away, replaced with rapt curiosity. Questions flew out of him, just as they had when he was a little boy. 'What does that do?', 'how did you manage that?', and 'Good glory, a printing press?!' were but a few. Newkirk answered as many as he could, but desperately wanted to ask a few of his own. Finally, after LeBeau brought the kid food, he settled enough for Newkirk to start.

"How are they really?" he asked, working on the papers his brother would need to escape.

"Who? Mam and the lot?"

Newkirk rolled his eyes, "No, the bloody king of England! Course Mam and Mavis and the rest. The letters don't say much… well, whatever happens to make it through the censors. Mav's is mostly gossip and Mam's… I'm worried about her."

"Don't be," Charlie assured. "Mam's tough enough."

"Charlie."

Charlie pushed the food around on his plate. At the call of his name, he met Newkirk's gaze and shrugged his good shoulder. "Beryl and Jack came home from the country a few weeks ago, that's brightened her spirits some; but mostly, she worries. Worries for you, for me, for Mav and Judy… all of us. Mother's lot, I suppose."

"Mav and Judy?"

"Judy's become a land girl, she has, working on some farm in the North. Writes about it every week - says it's too cold," Charlie said with a grin. "Mav's driving folks all over the place. Always comes home with a smile bigger than anything."

"Now you're starting to sound like her letters," Newkirk said skeptically.

"What can I say? Some days are hard, so hard you're not sure if you'll make it through - but we do and the next day is better." Charlie went back to his food, adding, "but Mam'll be relieved when I tell her you're fit as a fiddle."

"You can't tell her," Newkirk said quickly, before the lump in his throat could prevent him. "Not about me or any of this."

"But she hasn't had a letter in months; she's worried sick."

"I can't help that," was the defensive reply. "Me time is spent sewing, forging, impersonating krauts or in the ruddy cooler, not writing letters that'll have more bloody holes than words. Now you swear you won't tell 'em!"

"You selfish bastard…"

Charlie didn't have a chance to finish the sentence before Newkirk cuffed his ear and grabbed his collar. Charlie's mouth clamped shut and his jaw flexed as he ground his teeth, a quirk he'd picked up from their dad. His fist clenched and his glare bore into Newkirk until the older brother ducked his head.

"Aw, Charlie, why do you have to make things so hard," he muttered, releasing his brother and pushing his fingers through his hair. He changed his tactic, softening his tone. "Please, promise you'll not say anything. It's orders."

"Right," Charlie nodded, barely relaxing. He pushed his plate away and stood. "I should take a kip, if I'm leaving tonight," he said, before shuffling out the door. Newkirk didn't acknowledge him, he was too busy kicking himself.

Every man in camp would kill for a chance to see a familiar face, let alone family. Here he was coming to blows with his. His little brother was always more heart than brains… Newkirk smirked, _bit like Andrew._

No, that wasn't fair - to either of them. They weren't the problem; their heart wasn't the problem. Perhaps his lack of heart was the problem… and maybe - just maybe he could fix that.

Shoving his work to the side, Newkirk grabbed a clean, blank sheet of paper and began to write.

H~H

That evening, after roll call and lights out, the Heroes were down in the tunnel. LeBeau had helped Charlie into his German outfit while Hogan guided him through the steps of his escape. Olsen would take him into Hammelburg and put him on the train. He wouldn't get off until Dusseldorf, where he'd be met at the train station by an agent. The agent would give him further instructions.

Newkirk appeared at the doorway. Hogan motioned for LaBeau to join him, sensing the two needed to be alone. Charlie fiddled with his old uniform, "I suppose I'll have to get another one."

Newkirk grinned, "that's one way to get around the requisitions officer."

Charlie laughed and cleaned out the pockets. He set the items on the bench. A lighter. A pack of cigarettes, though this only had two out of it for he hadn't yet picked up Peter's habit. A tiny, gold medallion on a chain. A worn, faded envelope.

"It's not much, but I hate to leave them behind," Charlie said.

Newkirk picked up the envelope. He expected it to be some love note with soft, feminine handwriting, but it was a letter he had written, goodness knows how long ago. Charlie had kept it and even flew missions with it, against RAF regulations. He smirked, "did I say something particularly witty?"

Charlie forced a smile and look away. "I haven't read it yet. I knew you'd be gutted by me joining. I've always cared what you thought, Peter. Always," his voice grew husky and he ducked his head in embarrassment.

Newkirk fingered the envelope then pulled the letter out. "Go ahead and read it," he said. "I just said the truth. You're twice the man Dad and I could ever hope to be and I'm proud of you."

"I don't understand… you hate the RAF, the conscription…"

"I hate being told what to do," Newkirk corrected. "I hate being told what _**not**_ to do. Especially by snot-nose officers who can't tell up from down. I admire you for doing this willingly - without a gun in your back."

"Really?"

"Course. Now what else 've you got?" Newkirk snatched up the gold medallion, "Mav's St. Christopher medal? Lotta luck that brought you," he scoffed.

"I don't know," Charlie's lopsided grin re-appeared. "I'm not dead, am I?"

Hogan cleared his throat from the doorway. "I hate to interrupt, but it's time to go."

They followed the Guv back through the tunnel system, toward the exit. Olsen stood, also dressed in civvies, waiting. Newkirk held out his hand and Charlie accepted for a moment than they hugged. Olsen went up first then signalled for Charlie.

"You get home safe, you hear?" Newkirk said as Charlie climbed the ladder. He reached the top wrung, then turned slightly to smile down at his brother.

"And you remember what Dad always said," Charlie commanded.

Newkirk stared at the medal, lost in thought until Hogan prodded in asking what Charlie meant. Newkirk chuckled. "Dad was in the Great War, when he came back he had a bit of life advice. He worked hard to pound it into all our heads."

"Which was?"

"Never volunteer for anything," Newkirk said, simply. He put the medallion into his pocket and headed back to the radio room. Hogan shook his head in amazement, telling himself that the first thing he'd do when the war was over would be to make a trip to the East End. Maybe once he met the whole family, he'd finally understand them?

Three Days Later

Mavis hurried down the corridor of the RAF hospital. When Mam had called at work, she'd been expecting the worst - that they'd found Charlie, that he was coming home in a box. However, when 'he's home, he's safe' tumbled out, Mavis had actually cried. She'd received permission from her boss to leave early and bring Charlie home. She finally reached his door, braced herself, and knocked before opening it.

Charlie was sitting on the bed, his arm in a sling and a nurse was placing a fresh bandage on his forehead. The nurse was telling him all about when to change his bandage and that if he had any dizziness or felt ill, he was to come back in.

"Well, look at the sight of you," she teased, after the nurse excused herself. "Didn't Krautland agree with you?"

Charlie chuckled, "I just popped down for a kip and imagine me surprise to find they had trees. Belted me head on a right fat one."

"Come on then," Mavis gestured to the door. "Mam's got the fatted calf all laid out with her best china; wouldn't want it getting cold."

Charlie stood and reached for his uniform jacket. "Oh," he said, smoothly sliding an envelope from his pocket. He'd found it sewn into the lining of his jacket after he'd gotten on the sub. If it hadn't been for the loose thread, he might have missed it. "There was a letter from Peter in my box when I got back."

Mavis brightened considerably, "Mam will be pleased. She hasn't had a letter in donkey's. Hurry up then, you can read it while I drive home."

Charlie followed his sister out of the hospital and into the waiting car below. Settling into the car, Charlie opened the envelope as Mavis put the jeep in gear. He grinned as he read aloud the carefully chosen words of his brother; none of which let on that the letter was but a day old, nor did it give an inkling of the fantastic operation of which he was a crucial part. Perhaps one day when all of it was over - when Peter finally came home - they could tell that extraordinary tale, but until then it would be kept a secret. A secret between brothers.

The End

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Authors Note: Hey, thanks for reading. This was written pretty quickly - at least for me - and was proof-read in a hectic manner. So, I apologize for any errors.


End file.
